Useful Platitudes and Skin Contact
by messed up stargazer
Summary: Grantaire always thought Enjolras hated him. However, there are many things he's wrong about. Talking to an sleeptalking Enjolras might and might not be one of them. Slight pre-slash, use your slash goggles, E/R, read and review please! I guarentee the story is better than the summary.


Grantaire woke with a start, as he often did, in the Musain. Grantaire rolled his shoulders and looked around blearily. Finding the wine he had been thoroughly enjoying before confessing stupidly to Jehan that he doubted he could walk home tonight, who recruited Feuily and Bahorel to lift him into the chair he was in now, he emptied the bottle and actually took in his surroundings. The Musain was all but empty with books, bottles and the occasional flower strewn about the tables and floor. It had been a good meeting. Apollo had given a truly wonderful speech which almost had him on his feet, and all the Amis were in a fantastic mood afterwards. Only Enjolras didn't join in on the festivities. He never did. Grantaire couldn't remember if he'd ever joined in on his friends fun. Instead, Enjolras only cocked an eyebrow and, heading downstairs, said he had to finish his ever constant work. That work that always seemed present that he strived ever so hard to finish but somehow never was able to actually finish.

Feeling slightly better than earlier, he decided he could try to make it to the little flat he called home tonight so he staggered downstairs. There he saw a sleeping god. Apollo, in all his glory, lay asleep at one of the few tables left, his speeches and essays spread out around him. Grantaire smiled rather idiotically at the sight, unable to help it. Apollo was so beautiful when he slept. His marble brow relaxed and he looked so serene, like he wasn't a twenty-two year old leading a revolution against the monarchy. If only this moment could last forever. If only Apollo's cause, however just, would succeed. Grantaire knew the people, their fear, their angst, their resistance to change. The people would not rise, not even when a god called them to action.

As his musings turned cynical, as they always did, Grantaire's ears picked up soft crying coming from the world around him. He looked around and found no one else but Enjolras. Enjolras? In tears? Impossible. Enjolras was made of marble and marble cannot shed tears. Grantaire stumbled over to his beloved leader and found the serene expression once dictating Enjolras's dreams had turned to fear, an emotion Grantaire thought Enjolras could not feel.

"Please, take me, I'm their leader, don't hurt them please, show mercy, oh please God have mercy upon them." Enjolras murmured, his voice betraying the calm and collected mask Grantaire had always known. "Please, stop, you'll kill him. Please. I beg of you. Take me. I will die in his place."

"Oh Enjolras." Grantaire, assuming the 'him he spoke of was Combeferre or even Courfeyrac, moaned softly and placed his hand on the nape of Enjolras's neck, running his thumb up and down soothingly. "Calm yourself my friend. Your friends are safe. You are safe. You are in no danger."

Enjolras whimpered in relief, his expression softening. Grantaire kept up his ministrations to make sure all traces of the nightmare would not touch Enjolras this night.

"Taire?" Enjolras spoke so clearly Grantaire thought he had woken. However, Enjolras's eyes were closed and his breathing still was even.

Hoping the sleeping man would not remember the conversation, Grantaire decided to answer, "I'm here, mon ami."

"I don't hate you," Those four words caused Grantaire to drop to his knees in shock, "I can't. I simply cannot wake up to know of your death. I couldn't do it." Enjolras confessed, his brow creased in worry.

A tad unsettled by the worry shown by the unconscious man beside him, as he had never known it, Grantaire said, "That won't happen. To me or the other Amis. You need feel no worry for me as you do them."

"I don't worry for them as I do you. They do not drink as you do. As my father did." Enjolras murmured.

More than curious about Enjolras's family, he never spoke of them especially not to him, Grantaire decided he would not pry into the subject of Enjolras's father. If Enjolras truly wished to share, then he would when he were sensible.

"Perhaps. But they are in more danger than I am. You do not let me carry a pistol as you do them." Grantaire mused.

"I don't see it that way. A gun shot is not always deadly. Too much wine always is. I could not bear it if I was unable to wake you after a wine sleep. I care for you too much." Enjolras whispered.

Grantaire sat there for a minute, still slightly in shock. Enjolras cared for him? This entire idea was new to him. And if Grantaire suddenly decided to drink a little less around Enjolras then that was his own decision with no outside influence.

"I see your point, my dear Apollo. Silence now. You need to rest." Grantaire pressed a kiss to Enjolras's temple who simply sighed as an answer.

Grantaire ran a hand through Enjolras's soft, golden hair before draping one of Enjolras's arms across his own neck and gently grabbed under Enjolras's knees and back, lifting methodically slow. He carried Enjolras as slowly and as gently as he possibly could, as to not wake or jostle the young man, upstairs. Enjolras was incredibly light, so he needed little strength. Grantaire resolved to buy Enjolras food the next time he saw him, as the revolutionary would never reject something well-meant from one of his friends, even him. Grantaire then set Enjolras down in the chair he slept in earlier that night and made sure he was comfortable and settled. Enjolras shivered slightly and Grantaire immediately started searching for the blanket used to cover the ammunition they were gathering for the revolution, thinking Enjolras needed it more than gun powder tonight, and, finding it, draped it over Enjolras, who curled up under the blanket, clearly relaxed.

Staring at the admittedly cute sight, he stripped of his jacket, folded it, and tucked it under Enjolras's head. Enjolras snuggled into the makeshift pillow, inhaling Grantaire's scent deeply and smiling.

"Good night my dear Apollo. May the angels watch over your dreams." Grantaire repeated what his mother used to say to him so many years ago before she went missing and the true nightmares started.

Then Grantaire realized his words. What if Enjolras had another nightmare? What if their many enemies found him in this vulnerable state and attacked him?

Grantaire went downstairs, made sure the ink was dry on Enjolras's work before collecting it and slipping it inside Enjolras's bag, and then once satisfied none of Enjolras's effects were left, he went back upstairs. He pulled a chair over, the one Enjolras had stood on Grantaire remembered, chuckling slightly, and sat down on the floor. He laid his head on the seat of the chair, and gazed at his Apollo, thinking he could find no better place to sleep than to see Apollo's face as he woke up in the morning, even if sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

However, the residual effects of the wine and exhaustion quickly carried the cynic to sleep as he listened only to Enjolras's soft, even breath. It was an unconscious maneuver that when Enjolras whimpered, a nightmare striking him once more, Grantaire clasped his hand strongly, which quieted the young revolutionary.

With their fingers loosely intertwined, nightmares didn't touch either boy for the first time in months.

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**I had this in my mind and I just couldn't get it out until I wrote it down. Hope you like it! Reviews make me write more!**


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